


Made Under a Crescent Moon

by dreamonlosers



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gore, OP got their medical knowledge from reddit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 14:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamonlosers/pseuds/dreamonlosers
Summary: The two hundred years of his life hadn't always treated him kindly, and it showed - the broad expanse of his torso was marred with scars ranging from slices to bite marks to bullet wounds. Most were from his younger days and made him look like a battered junkyard dog. The scars were the only sign of his age, as no human could have as many in a single lifetime - they would die before they could.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I recently watched Logan and that scene where he had to push the bullets out of his body...damn. Made me think of Greed.
> 
> This is such a weird and vague drabble but whatever. Hope you enjoy!

His would-be assailant was struggling against the stone wall as he tightened his grip on the man's throat. Life was draining from his fearful, wide eyes and Greed knew that, unlike himself, it wouldn't come back. He imagined the reddening skin beneath his hands, all bruised and swollen and marred ugly, and he drew a sharp breath. Squeezing harder, all the other man could do was gasp and wheeze and choke and wish that he hadn’t obeyed his boss’s orders that night. Greed would make sure that he paid a visit to him. 

"Pity," he said aloud as the man became limp and Greed let the body slump onto the cement. Fresh blood colored the gray stone, shining under the dim moonlight. "You really did a number on me, though."

The lifeless body said nothing in return. The mouth hung slightly open and his eyes were blank and empty. Then the homunculus turned his attention to his own body, inspecting the bloody wounds that were beginning to heal but he willed it to stop. Having bullets lodged in his body wouldn't do him much good – they had a tendency to irritate. 

He left the body where it was. There were no fingerprints to identify and no witnesses who could vouch for anyone arriving or leaving the scene. As far as they were concerned, a ghost could've done it, then vanished into the air as a wisp of stale cigarette smoke.

He returned to the bar as dawn approached. It was quiet; most were asleep in their private rooms and the remaining patrons were passed out drunk or were about to be. He took to the single-stall restroom and stood in front of the grimy vanity, removing his vest with its fur collar stained crimson and put down what remained of his shield. Four bullet holes were staggered along his chest, but the gun hadn't been strong enough to send the bullets through his body completely. Otherwise, he'd be hitting the hay for a few hours instead of waiting for the metal to move to the surface below his skin.

There was a book on the oddities of the human body that he had once read; out of boredom, of course, and Father always had them lying around the lair. And being made in the image of humans, it wouldn't hurt to know a thing or two about himself.

Cells were specialized; most were differentiated in the womb (he didn't know how to translate that into homunculus terms, however) and some as adults. A myofibroblast was one of them – the type between a muscle cell and a fibroblast. If a circumstance called for it, the cells would contract and push foreign bodies towards the exit, sometimes creating a cyst. But for Greed, with his stone pumping out an excess amount of energy that was more than a human body could handle, his body rapidly made the metal shell migrate to the point where it was peeking out of the wound like a worm peeking out of wet dirt after a hard rain. He took a clawed hand and tugged it the rest of the way, letting it hit the porcelain sink with a shrill chatter.

The hole was perfectly round and glistening pink. Specks of blood tainted the skin around it and, when he looked down, had stuck with the bullet and sprinkled across the vanity. He sighed and wondered why he didn't get his shield up sooner - cleaning up was always a chore.

The three that followed went quickly, and the injuries left in their wake were healing nicely. Despite his advantages, despite the means in which he was made, scar tissue was another thing his father couldn't amend with alchemy. Collagen could appease the threatening damage, but did little to meld with the surrounding skin and, at times, was puffy and pale and always irritating. Its rough texture was ugly to the touch and marked his body with long, white lines like snakes and stars and were reminders of all the dumbass fights and accidents he had gotten himself into. 

The two hundred years of his life hadn't always treated him kindly, and it showed - the broad expanse of his torso was marred with scars ranging from slices to bite marks to bullet wounds. Most were from his younger days and made him look like a battered junkyard dog. The scars were the only sign of his age, as no human could have as many in a single lifetime - they would die before they could. 

Greed wiped the vanity with his flesh hand, smearing the blood more than cleaning it, but he paid no mind. The bullets were tossed into the bin beneath the counter and his skin had repaired itself with little scarring to remind him of the incident. Dawn was rapidly approaching by the time he returned to the bar's common room and he slouched on the couch with his glasses hanging on to the bridge of his nose. The others would be up soon, but would leave him alone until the sounds of their voices inevitably woke him.

He suspected that Martel would probably ask about the gory vest in the bathroom, or Roa would make an exasperated comment about finding weird shit like bloodied bullets in the garbage. And Dolcetto would ask Roa why he was going through it in the first place, and the oldest chimera would roll his eyes and grunt something incomprehensible.

His response to either situation would be a nonchalant shrug followed with, “Shit happens.”

**Author's Note:**

> Writers go through so much - I watched a video of this guy removing a bullet before writing this story and it was so fucking nasty. And Reddit forums helped me with some of the oddities and crap. 
> 
> Don't try this at home.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
